Passing by an old graveyard
I yelled to the old man
Eerily singing a dead man’s song,
“Sing me a song of mirth and cheer.”
The old man replied with eerily sigh,
“I cannot, I only know songs of death and dismay.”
I called again with vigor and resolve,
“Sing me a song of well-wishes on my way.”
The old man looked on with sadness in his eyes,
“I can not, I only know songs of the men who have died.”
My heart shook within me, but I called out nonetheless,
“Sing me a song of merrymaking, one without fear of dying.”
The old man replied, “I cannot, I fear all who hear my songs are dying.”
I called for the last time, a little slower, a little less resolved,
“Sing me a song that does not wither or die.”
The old man sighed, “I can not, I only know songs that go down to slumber.”
I stopped along the path, my hands shaking in the dark,
“Sing me a song that has no end.”
The old man went on his way, singing, no longer where the dead lay.
I could not breathe in the shadow of his leaving,
my heart only knew silence.
I walked on my way, sighing at somber thoughts
of the dead and where they lay.
Jona Nightingale 